When she sat down again, Jacy said, “So when did Andy find out about me?”
“When you won that junior tennis tournament. Your picture was in the paper.”
“You’re lying again. If he went away, how could he have seen my picture?”
“He subscribed to Greenwich Time.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Think about it.”
She did. “He was still in love with you. Even after the horrible things you said to him.”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Even though you’d married my…married Don.”
“So it would seem.”
“He knew you had a child?”
Another shrug.
“But not that I was his?”
“Not until he saw your picture.”
“God, you’re so fucked up.”
“You’re not to use that word in this house.”
“Oh, right. You get to fuck my father and toss him out with the trash, but I don’t get to say a dirty word?”
“I didn’t…,” Viv began, then stopped. Wiping her eyes on a napkin, she said, “I made a choice.”
“And now the man you chose is going to jail. Well done.”
“We don’t know that for sure. It’s only a possibility.”
“It would serve you right.”
“Also a possibility.” She rose again, this time setting her cup and saucer next to the sink before returning.
“Who knows that Donald’s under investigation?”
“Nobody.”
“Vance’s parents?”
“No.”
“How long before they do? How long before everybody knows?”
“Feds don’t talk. Besides, it’s his boss they’re after. And his boss’s boss.”
“Tell me something, Viv. Do you even know about the safe behind the Renoir?”
At this her mother started. “You vicious little snoop.”
“Mmmm,” she agreed, then, “How do I get in touch with my father?”
“He’s down the hall. Just knock on the door.”
“How do I get in touch with Andy?”
“You don’t. He’s gone. How many times do I have to say it?”
That made it twice that she’d used the word gone to describe him. Jacy swallowed hard. “I want to see him.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He died.”
“Stop…fucking…lying.”
“Keep your voice down.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally her mother said, “How about we make a deal? I give you what you want. You give me what I want.” And when Jacy hesitated, “What’s the matter, little girl? You don’t like being the one who has to choose?” Her mother wore a different expression now, and when Jacy recognized it as triumph, she realized she’d somehow misplayed her hand. Her mother knew what Jacy wanted, but she had no idea what Viv wanted in return. “Your call, little girl. Do we have a deal?”
* * *
—
THE OBITUARY PAGE from the Danbury News-Times, which her mother produced as her part of the bargain, contained half a dozen death notices, some running to several columns. Her father’s was by far the shortest. It stated that Andres Demopoulos had passed away at the age of forty-five at Holloway House, a nursing facility in nearby Bethel. He’d originally come to America via Canada with his older brother Dimitri. They’d grown up in New York City, but after his brother’s untimely death he’d moved to Connecticut, where he’d worked in the food-service industry before falling ill. He had—his daughter read—no surviving relatives. Which meant that somehow the grinning young man from the Time Machine photo was gone again. What little Jacy had of her father—a few terrifying minutes on the front lawn of their home, a glimpse of an old photograph and the few thin facts of the obituary—was all she’d ever have.
Finally, after Jacy’d read the obit several times, her mother spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Which sent Jacy into a warp-drive fury, though she kept her voice down. “Really, Viv? You’re sorry? About what? Are you sorry he died? That he loved you? That you loved him? That he loved me? That you kept him from me and me from him?”
“That he had such a hard life.”
“You’re the one that made it hard. You and Donald.”
“For your sake.”
“Don’t…you dare say that. You chose. You said so yourself. You didn’t even know you were pregnant when you made that choice.”
“You don’t know the whole story.”
“I don’t know any of the story. You weren’t even going to tell me that he existed.”
“That’s right, and I’m sorry you found out. Look what knowing has done to you. Your ignorance was bliss. Don’t you remember how happy you used to be?”
Was this true? Had she been happy? If so, that happiness was so long ago that it now felt like someone else’s. “How do we even know that any of this is true? How would a newspaper in Danbury know that my father had a brother named Dimitri? It says he had